Delayed Gratification
by carlyinrome
Summary: SUMMARY: Ice could be spoiled. Delayed gratification was good for him.  AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written for Scylla for the 2011 New Year's Resolution Challenge.


b**TITLE:**/b Delayed Gratification

b**RATING:**/b NC-17

b**FANDOM:**/b I_Top Gun_/I

b**PAIRING:**/b Iceman/Slider

b**SUMMARY:**/b Ice could be spoiled. Delayed gratification was good for him.

b**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**/b Written for Scylla for the lj user="yuletide" 2011 New Year's Resolution Challenge.

Maybe it's just that Ice is so used to Slider having his back, because he doesn't notice him sneaking up behind him until he feels the heat of Slider's breath on the nape of his neck.

"You have any idea how hot you look in those dress whites?" he purrs, his hand settling at the small of Ice's back.

Ice knows how this looks from the outside—innocent, just an RIO imparting some confidence, maybe a dirty joke, to his pilot. They spend so much time together, and such trust is necessary, that a lot of leeway is given to the relationship a pilot can have with his RIO. Still. Ice knows that it's not innocent, and he knows that that leeway only extends so far, and that what Slider wants to do to him right now is definitely not covered.

Ice would sooner give his right nut than get grounded, and Slider knows it, so when Ice goes taut Slider removes his hand and gives him a little space. Ice relaxes almost immediately; by the time Slider's half a foot away, Ice is almost smiling.

"You have an ulterior celebration in mind?" he asks.

Slider's face goes sour, and in a second Ice can see why—Mitchell, coming up in his dress uniform.

"Later," Slider says.

Ice played that whole wingman shit off fucking ice cold, but he plays everything that way; that's why his call name's Iceman, for Christ's sake. Slider can tell he's rattled, though; they let Mitchell buy them a drink, and Ice drinks more than normal, tossing the neat vodka back like it's water. He never flinches when the alcohol hits his tongue; he never flinches, period, but he's a little unsteady on his feet when they head back.

Ice is drunk enough not to protest when Slider helps him walk down the halls to their quarters, Slider taking Ice's weight on his shoulder, walking stooped because big as Ice is, Slider's taller. Slider's big hands fan around Ice's middle, and even when some ensigns pass them in the hall, Ice doesn't say anything, doesn't flinch. Slider maneuvers them through the doorway, then shuts the door behind them and deposits Ice's limp body onto his bunk. Ice falls like a sack of potatoes, limp and heavy, looking up at Slider with those ice blue eyes heavily lidded. His mouth is curved oddly, almost a smile from one angle and almost a grimace from another.

"I'm drunk," Ice says.

Slider sits down beside him. "No shit."

"You'll probably have to undress me."

Slider's hands freeze in the motion of removing his shoes. Ice laughs. Slider rolls his eyes, and drops a shoe to the floor with a thud.

"You're drunk," he says.

Ice grins. "No shit."

Slider lines his shoes up at the edge of the bed, and then goes to contend with Ice. Ice just lies there, limp and compliant, as Slider moves his body over his.

"You wanted to celebrate," Ice says, studying Slider's face myopically.

Slider's fingers move slowly, lightly over Ice's jaw line, over the buckle of his belt.

"You called Mitchell your wingman," Slider accuses.

Ice groans and presses fiercely against Slider's hand at his waist, desperate for more friction.

"You want me to call you wingman?" he asks. "I'll call you anything you want, you move that hand a little lower."

Ice can be spoiled, which goes along with being so talented. Delayed gratification is good for him, and so Slider ignores the request. He slowly unbuckles Ice's belt, and then he pulls it free of the belt loops and sets it down on the bed. He grazes his knuckles over Ice's fly, but as soon as Ice keens and thrusts up into his touch, Slider pulls his hand away. Instead he gives his concentration to the button of Ice's pants, puzzling over the thing like it's a safe he's trying to crack. Ice grinds his head into the mattress, and he moans.

"Ron," he begs.

Slider works the button free, and then he taps Ice's zipper, contemplatively. Ice takes a long breath through his gritted teeth, his eyes on the ceiling.

"Please," he tries.

Slider ignores him. He leans over Ice's very eager body and kisses him, gently, at the ticklish spot at the corner of Ice's mouth. Ice shivers.

"Turn over," Slider says.

Ice's brow furrows.

"You wanna come?" Slider asks. There's a long pause, but finally Ice nods. "Then turn over."

Ice frowns, but he turns himself onto his belly. Slider takes one of Ice's wrists in his hand, Ice's pulse throbbing against his thumb, and then he picks up Ice's belt from the mattress. He winds the leather strap around Ice's wrist, and then, even as he feels Ice's body tauten in protest beneath him, he takes Ice's other hand and he binds them both behind Ice's back with the belt.

"Ron," Ice says, almost a question.

"You don't want to, you better speak up." Slider waits a long moment, but Ice doesn't say anything. "Get up on your knees."

It's hard, with his hands behind his back and his mind fuzzy with alcohol, but after a minute Ice manages. Slider was completely unprepared for how the sight of Ice, his hands bound behind his back, on his knees and following orders, would affect him, and for a moment he just stares, rubbing his palm over his own denim-clad erection. Then he forces the feeling down as best he can; they need this to last. He composes himself, and then gets behind Ice, reaches around his waist and finishes undoing his fly. Slider lets his fingers brush over Ice's ready cock for an agonizing second before pulling back, forcing Ice's pants down to his knees.

Ice hisses when the touch stops. "Ron, Jesus—"

"You're whiny when you're drunk, Ice," Slider says conversationally, and then laughs when Ice makes a small, indignant noise.

Slider takes Ice by the shoulders and spins him around so they're facing each other, and then pushes Ice back until his back is against the wall. This steadies Ice, some, and he relaxes a bit, sitting back on his haunches. Ice's bared erection looks painful, but Ice doesn't say anything; doubtless, he doesn't want to be accused of whining again.

Slider takes Ice's jaw in one hand and his cock in the other, and he angles Ice's face to kiss him long and slow while he starts stroking him, long and slow. Ice is controlled everywhere, even when he's drunk, and he's not noisy during sex; he pants quietly as Slider brings him closer and closer, but he doesn't cry out. Ice's cheeks flush, his chest, and Slider grins and thinks of how much he enjoys fucking blondes; it's just so much more rewarding. Ice begins raising his hips, thrusting into Slider's hand, and soon they're moving together in a rhythmic snake charmer's dance, Slider moving along with Ice's rocking so he can keep kissing that plush, sweet mouth. Ice's thighs begin to quiver, and Slider can feel the muscles in Ice's shoulders strain—he's not used to being restrained; he wants to reach out to take control, but he can't. Slider chuckles, and Ice makes a frustration noise in the back of his throat, and thrusts harder.

"Spoiled," Slider hisses, and makes his touch lighter. Ice grunts and tries to thrust harder to make up for it, but Slider takes his hand from Ice's jaw and instead uses it to press against Ice's sternum, pinning him to the wall.

"Dammit, Ron, I_please_/I—"

Ice's pupils are dilated, and he's breathing hard; he's very close. Slider tries not to grin as he leans close and whispers, "Say it."

Ice makes a strangled, desperate noise. "Ron—"

"I_Say it._/I"

Ice whines, but he gives in.

"Wingman," he says. "Jesus, please, you're my fucking wingman, just—please—"

With two quick, hard jerks, Slider brings him off. Ice bucks desperately into Slider's hand, moaning quietly, and then collapses against him, smelling sweet and musky with sex. Slider puts his arms around Ice, holds him tight, one hand feathering up through Ice's damp hair, the other reaching back to feel where the leather of the belt bites into the soft skin of Ice's wrists.

"You're a good boy when you heel, aren't you?" Slider muses.

Ice's body tautens against his. "Fuck you."

"Okay," Slider says. "It is my turn."

And then he pulls back a bit, just enough to see Ice's face when he laughs.


End file.
